Harmless?
by ringerxo
Summary: Edward Masen is on a mission; Jasper Whitlock never knew what his mission was. A bus ride brings them together, in more ways than one. -Tattward and Inkella entry- AU/AH/OOC, Slash, lemonerific.
1. Chapter 1

**Tattward & Inkella One-Shot Contest**

**Title: **Harmless?

**Your pen name:** ringerxo

**Characters:** Jasper, Alice, Maria, Siobhan, Edward

**Disclaimer:** All characters belong to Stephanie Meyer. Jasper's tat-content belongs to Will Shakes. Edward's tat content belongs to Tim Burton; the words of the song belong to Danny Elfman. 'American Idiot' belongs to Green Day; Jasper's alarm-clock song belongs to the Killers, from their latest album, Day and Age. The USMC belongs to the USA, and the pretzels belong to those who bake them every morning. Even though I wish they belonged to me. =\ (Forgive me if you haven't seen The Nightmare Before Christmas, but it features quite heavily. Sorry.) All places are real.

**To see other entries in the Tattward & Inkella Contest, please visit the C2 page:  
**www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/community/Tattward_and_Inkella_Contest/71624/

* * *

_From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back. That is the point that must be reached. –Franz Kafka_

_

* * *

  
_

**I**

**EPOV**

"Mr. Masen, would you kindly fasten your seatbelt?"

I looked up at the flight attendant; her eyes flashed with impatience. When we boarded, it took her five tries, before she threatened to throw me off the plane and back into JFK. Only then did I comply.

I smiled, and she glared. Internally, I furrowed my eyebrows; this... resistance... was strange to me. I was used to female compliance and male jealousy.

She leaned down, her nametag _clink_ing softly against the plastic handle on top of the seat in front of me. "Mr. Masen," she whispered pleasantly; her smile was stewardess-regulation wide, but her eyes were chips of black ice. "If you don't buckle your seatbelt, I will send the flight's security officers to do it for you. And, if for some reason they're unsuccessful, I'm certain they'll be more than happy to call for airport authorities once we land, and I assure you, Mr. Masen--"

She straightened up and folded her arms across her chest, her next words sending a chill of anticipation down my spine.

"—Israeli security is so much more capable than security in New York."

I swallowed thickly the flight attendant thought it was out of fear, but I was doing it to get rid of the saliva that had pooled in my mouth at the thought of all that danger. Security... with guns... being an American citizen, making a nuisance of himself in a strange country...

If only I were Russian.

I twisted around in my seat, found the accursed seatbelt, and pulled on it, hard. It unwound with a protesting noise of fast-moving, industrial-strength woven nylon. Drawing it over my waist, I snapped it into its companion and turned to see the flight attendant's smirk of satisfaction.

_HELL no. Time to bring out the big guns._

I smiled my signature crooked grin, and winked. "Happy?" I asked. Behind her tough-girl façade, I could see her breath hitch.

With a snort and a toss of her neatly coiffed black curls, she spun on her heel and strode away. My smile slid off my face, and I turned my head to take in the view of blinking lights under me.

Israel. The Promised Land. Home to nearly seven million people, not counting the Palestinians that lived behind the Green Line – the same people who comprised a large part of the reason that the Israelis never officially made Judea, Samaria, and Gaza a part of the territorial State of Israel. If they did, the Palestinians would make up more than half of the population, and therefore threaten the Jewish foundations of the country.

Many people thought that the conflict in the Middle East was like a river: ever flowing, unstoppable, slow and steady, with waterfalls here and there, but nothing serious. If you looked at the situation in the Israel of 2008 more closely – after studying every possible angle, from its history to the nature of its people – the conflict would resemble a ticking time bomb much more than it did a river.

And my role in this glorious mess?

Well, I hoped to set off the bomb.

* * *

**JPOV**

_Are we human, or are we dancers? My sign is vital, my hands are cold; and I'm on my knee—_

"Argh." I stuck my hand out from under my blanket and tried, with no success, to turn off the radio alarm clock. Unfortunately, … I'd placed it on the other side of room in an effort to force myself to get out of bed and turn it off.

"Grr." I flung the blanket off me, welcoming the fresh breeze that brushed my sweaty limbs as I sat up. Rubbing my hand across my face roughly, I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and placed them on the floor.

"Nrrggh." Another technique that 'smart me' employed was a mannerism I had heard about from my friend Daniel, a tour guide in the Temple Institute. I could recall his clearer-than-crystal words, spoken in a clipped British accent: _"The priests of the Jewish religion, during the High Holy days, would sleep in the near vicinity of the Temple; when waking up, they would lower their feet onto the cold stone floor in order to shock themselves into staying awake."_

It worked, but it didn't make it any more pleasant. Maybe you had to have some degree of holiness in your body; the closest I'll ever get to holy is talking about it.

"Blergh." I tasted the roof of my mouth; it tasted like someone had dumped copious amounts of Italian leftovers in it. I had a distinct feeling that it wasn't far from the truth.

Suddenly, my eyes alighted on the Sights of Sights – my coffee pot. I lunged towards it, my USMC instincts kicking in; avoiding any major collisions with the kitchen chair and the various cabinet handles. I reached the Promised Device unscathed and pried the lid open with shaking hands.

_Yes!_

Maria had been kind enough to fill the filter with freshly ground Aroma coffee, as she habitually did whenever we went out together and she had to drag me back to my apartment in the Jewish Quarter. I filled the pot with water, poured it into the machine, placed the pot under the filter, and flicked the switch to ON.

"Mmmmm." It was a known fact among my closest friends that I couldn't speak English and/or polysyllabic words, until I had my first cup of coffee. My nose was so attuned to the smell of the brewing coffee, that it was a danger for me to walk down Jaffa St. without my own cup of java, be it decaf or normal.

I watched the dripping of the coffee intently; when it finished, I whipped the pot off the hot plate and poured nearly half of it into my beer mug.

I took a sip, and it was as if I just turned on the computer in my head. My appointments for today flashed in front of my eyes, last night replayed itself with horrific clarity, and I could hear my cell phone ringing. It had already reached the middle of _American Idiot_, so I dove towards the small silver traitor and flipped it open.

"'Lo?"

"Jazz!" Maria's buoyant voice flowed out of the earpiece. "How are you? Had your coffee yet?"

"Yup," I said, sitting on the deep, wide stone windowsill and raising my legs to rest on the other side, my profile visible through the window. "I'm speaking, so that's kind of obvious. Thanks for the coffee, by the way."

"No prob, Jazz," she chimed, and I smiled. _Some things just never change..._

Maria had been my first girlfriend – and my last, really. After I left the Marines, she came out and decided that, since we knew each other really well and were not attracted to each other at all, we should travel the world together.

She let me choose the destination, and I picked Israel. When she asked me why, I took off my shirt and turned my back to her. I can still remember her response.

"_Jasper, this is exquisite!" She traced her fingers lightly over the vines. "When did you get this done?"_

"_The same time as my USMC tats," I replied. "We were stationed in Jerusalem, and we all decided to get it over with before we flew back to the US. Everyone got two tats, one for the USMC and one for the unit, and then some of us got some extras. Not everybody, though."_

_She snorted, her fingers ghosting over the letters of the first stanza. "You made up for all those who didn't get another one, Jazz. Always overcompensating, aren't you?"_

_I shrugged. "Can't help it. It's ingrained into my skull." I hesitated, then added, "You remember how my dad was."_

_Her hand stopped; even I was surprised by the bitterness that infused my voice. "Yeah," she said, emotionless. We sat there in her room, she sitting behind me Indian-style and I on my knees, bent over slightly, until she resumed stenciling the words. I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding._

"_This is Shakespeare, right?" she said lightly, tapping the leaves on the border. I nodded, and recited the words along with her._

'If we shadows have offended,

Think but this and all is mended,

That you have but slumber'd here

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles, do not reprehend:

If you pardon, we will mend.

And, as I am an honest Puck,

If we have unearned luck

Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,

We will make amends ere long;

Else the Puck a liar call:

So, good night unto you all.

Give me your hands, if we be friends,

And Robin shall restore amends.'

_The silence reigned once more. The known flitted around our heads, present in the room with no one acknowledging it._

"_Your first role," Maria whispered. I nodded._

"_Jazz? Are you still there?"_

I shook my head and came out of my reverie. "Yup, sorry. Reminiscing."

She laughed, the sound of wind chimes tinkling in my ear. "I suppose it's a good thing that you spaced out. I was recounting last night's events."

I groaned and smacked my face, then swung my feet to the floor, unfolding myself from the uncomfortable position as Maria continued chattering on about my failed 'date'.

"...and then he was like, 'I'm not out of the closet yet, can we do this somewhere more private?', and then you were snarky, like you always get after a few drinks, and--"

"Maria, I really don't need the moment-by-moment replay, okay?" I snapped into the phone.

"Finish your mug of coffee, Jazz," she snapped back at me. "Then call me back when you're not such a bitch." The _beep_ of the call disconnecting sounded in my ear, and I flipped the phone closed with a sigh.

When Maria and I came to Israel, we were instantly captivated. Maria was spellbound by the unknown openness that the country possessed in spades; the people and the sights enchanted me.

You see, in Israel, people have no choice but to survive. Therefore, the mentality of 'live and let live' was much more agreeable to Maria then the 'we're going out of our way to show that we're tolerant' frame of mind that she had to endure for ten years, since 9th grade, in Dallas, Texas.

I loved the fact that in Israel, you can close your eyes, stick out your arm and take a spin, and hit at least three or four historically significant locations. You don't get that kind of intrigue in the US, not even in Washington.

After dilly-dallying around the various youth hostels in the country, we decided to stay. We both chose to live in Jerusalem, the heart of the country in so many ways; Maria became a softball instructor in the YMCA, and I took a course and became a tour guide. My athletic abilities and easy ways with people made me a favorite with tourists from abroad; my military past made me a natural pick for diplomats.

Living in Jerusalem mellows you out and keeps you on your toes simultaneously. That kind of style can unnerve many, but it suited me. After my turbulent teenage years and intensive military stint, a city that encased a little of calm and a little of storm suited me perfectly.

The next song blaring from the radio shook me out of my recollections. I grinned and turned up the volume, singing along under my breath.

"_Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me_

_I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to..."

* * *

_

**II**

**EPOV**

After hoisting my backpack up and exiting the airport, I took a shuttle to the bus stop at the entrance. The chance of there being a terrorist attack on a bus is much higher than a train or a taxi.

I got onto the bus to Jerusalem, paid the driver, and made my way to the back. Thankfully, at two in the afternoon, there were very few travelers, so I had my pick of the seats. At the very back of the bus, there were five seats in a row, so I leaned my back against the left window and stretched my legs out onto the seats. They reached the middle of the fourth seat, my Converse high-tops scuffed and filthy.

I started, staring at the shoes. They seemed to cackle evilly at me, taunting me, pulling me under.

I fought it – God knows I did – but the weariness and anticipation were too great; I fell through the barrier that I thought to be solid, blocking me from that day.

That day, made of smoke, in my mind. Flashes of blue steel, of the car keys, hot in my hand, the Volvo emblem glaring at my conscience. My shoes, slamming down on the pedals with force, popping a shoelace.

Speeding down the freeway, escaping the shadows behind me, trying to forget about all that was good in life. Holding a hand over my right ear, the other battling with the steering wheel for control.

Hearing the screams, the pleas for help—my hand beating against my ear, punishing myself for not answering them...

The loud screeching of the brakes pulled me out. I heard, as if from a distance, someone calling me. I opened my eyes to see a woman with long black hair and an olive complexion look at me with worry etched in every plane of her face; she was standing in the aisle, obviously waiting for me to take my legs off the seats so she could sit down. A quick scan of the rest of the bus showed that it was full, and I was occupying the entire backbench.

"Are you alright?" she asked. I nodded mutely at her; I could feel the trails my tears had left on my cheeks, so I assumed I had been sobbing aloud. Now, I couldn't open my mouth if my life depended on it. My mind was pulling me back under.

White paint, now. Covering the walls dryly, hiding the ugliness behind its flaky façade. I stared at the ceiling, fisting my hands in the sheets, wondering why I couldn't scream, why I couldn't hear the doctor entering my room. Seeing sharp outlines, locking onto their mouths forming words with faint sounds. My heart beating, rushing, trying to fall off the unavailable edge. The nurse, rushing to my left side, and the clincher.

"Doctor, he's going into shock... Doctor, he can't hear you, speak clearly..."

Someone tapped my shoulder. I focused my eyes on the same woman who had shaken me out of my reverie before. She was holding onto the handle attached to the seat in front of me, trying to keep upright but not really succeeding, due to the hairpin turns in the road to Jerusalem.

I took my legs off the seats instantly, feeling an unfamiliar emotion course through me as she sat down with a soft smile and began searching for something in her bag. _Guilt._

I tucked myself into the seat closest to the window and stared at the scenery flashing by my eyes. The low stone fence by the side of the road immediately registered in my mind; after five years of training it to recognize invitations to provocations upon sightings, things like low fences at the edge of high cliffs were absorbed naturally, filed away for future reference.

"How is Chicago this time of year?"

I turned my head towards the woman who had awakened guilt in me, an emotion that I haven't felt for close to four years, and raised a single eyebrow. She smiled and pointed at my shirt. I glanced down and cursed myself internally; the shirt was gray, short-sleeved and emblazoned with _Chicago YMCA, Lincoln Park division_. The back had _Lifeguard_ on it, but I wasn't about to show that part. Bad enough that I had the big fucking neon sign on me already, declaring the fact that I was a clueless tourist to everyone.

I glanced up and realized the woman was still waiting for a response. I shrugged and smiled weakly. "Chilly."

She nodded. "Gets pretty windy, too. So, you work the Y in Lincoln Park?"

I briefly considered being snarky, then decided to discard the notion. This woman seemed to awaken feelings, instinctive reactions, in me that I haven't felt in years... feelings that I had learned to repress, feelings that I didn't know were convenient at the time. "Yeah. I lifeguard there, when I'm not working." I raised my camera, and she smiled.

"My name's Maria, by the way. What's yours?"

"I'm Edward," I heard my mouth say, even though I didn't bid it to open. I was starting to rethink the whole ordeal; maybe I should not have come to Israel. The place seemed to have a weird effect on me.

"So, Edward," Maria started. "What are you working on now?"

Moving fast, my head was a maelstrom of thoughts and conflicting emotions by the time she posed the question. The invisible curlicue of the question mark was still forming itself lazily between us, like smoke from a cigarette. I hadn't even been in this country for 3 hours, and already I doubted my path and goal – the very things I had been working towards since the accident. The only reasons I kept myself alive.

"On my death," I blurted out. "I came to Israel to die."

* * *

**JPOV**

New Yorkers swear by their bagels; Los Angeles natives won't go anywhere without their coffee; the British need their tea by their side at all times.

Those who live in Jerusalem... have the fresh pretzels.

I stopped by Salim, the pretzel salesman by Jaffa Gate. He grinned at me toothily and offered me the top pretzel from his rack of fresh and piping hot crunchy pretzels.

I smiled at him and cocked an eyebrow. He grumbled good-naturedly and took the bottom pretzel, ripped it so he could take it off the pole, and shoved it into a brightly colored plastic bag, where I knew he had sprinkled a handful of za'atar** spice. I paid him the requisite five NIS* and sat down on one of the stone blocks that prevented cars from entering certain parts of the Jaffa Gate plaza.

My profession dictated copious amounts of waiting. Waiting for jobs, then waiting for the group to come to the Promised Land; waiting for them to get organized every morning; waiting for the buses; waiting for the security guards (if the places the group wants to visit are dangerous or if they're particularly paranoid); waiting for silence so I could explain the historical significance of some place...

If I weren't such a patient guy, I would have exploded within the first few weeks.

I was not a very accommodating tour guide. The suck-ups, who usually were new in the field, met their groups at the airport and obeyed their every wish. When a group took me on as their guide, however, I made it very clear that if they were looking for someone to bend to their wishes, I was not their man, and I even pointed them towards the more docile guides. There were some things I wasn't going to let go, and one of them was discipline.

My hands stilled for a moment, then continued their actions – dipping the soft white side of the pretzel into the za'atar and throwing the pieces into my mouth, satisfying my hunger. I continued musing away.

The discipline bit... that was my father's doing. Ten years after disconnecting from baseball, my dad's strident education was still there, lurking under the surface.

Along with my father's shouting from the field, the gentle words of my Drama instructor, Mrs. Mary Alice Brandon, echoed in my mind.

"_Jasper, you need to relax," Mrs. Brandon crooned. I was standing in front of the group, reading Theseus' lines from A Midsummer Night's Dream. His authoritative speaking was weighing heavily on me; it reminded me so much of my father._

_Mrs. Brandon glided over to me and put her hands on my shoulders, tiptoeing in order to do so. A few of her regular students chuckled. "Pull your shoulders back," she commanded. "You're not indignant that this whole mess-up happened. On the contrary, you couldn't care less."_

"_But he's a king!" I exploded, throwing my hands in the air. "Isn't he supposed to have some kind of infinitesimal emotional investment in his subjects?"_

"_Jasper, if he cared, he couldn't rule," Siobhan injected, ever the realist. I glared at her, and she calmly returned my gaze. _Damn drama freaks,_ I cursed in my head._

"_I can't take this," I announced angrily. Before I could grab my jacket and go, Mrs. Brandon's voice stopped me._

"_You walk out now, you fail, Mr. Whitlock," she called to my back. "And then your marks will drop below the required GPA for your father's treasured baseball team, which--"_

"_Fine," I snapped, spinning around and plopping down on the nearest chair. "But I'm not reading for Theseus," I added sullenly. Mrs. Brandon smiled._

"_I never meant for you to play that role, Jasper, I just wanted to see how versatile you are. Now, let's give Puck a shot, shall we?"_

The ringing of my cell phone dragged me out of my memories. I flipped it open and mumbled a greeting while hurrying to finish off my mouthful of pretzel and za'atar. I was waiting for a tour group from Kansas, and they were – I glanced at my watch, scuffed from years of use and abuse – an hour and a half late.

I sincerely hoped that it wasn't another David complex. Whenever I tell a group to tell their bus driver to drop them off by David's Tower, 60 percent of the time they end up at the David's Citadel Hotel, a fifteen-minute walk to the actual David's Tower, most of it uphill. They didn't mind – the walk was beautiful, along the walls of the Old City, and with the recent addition of the Mamilla mall/tourist trap, it was a nice introduction to the touristy side of Jerusalem – but I did. I hated the walk down the hill, especially since the Mamilla mall wasn't finished and the construction was dusty.

"Mr. Whitlock?" The voice seemed hesitant, shouting over a crowd of babbling voices in the background. "Jasper? This is Mrs. Cheney, we just landed--"

I groaned. They were supposed to have landed _two days _ago!

"—There were some delays in the flight... Might we be able to reschedule for tomorrow?" Her voice sounded anxious. "We don't mean to inconvenience you; really... we'll reimburse you--"

"That won't be necessary, Angela," I cut her off, forcing some serenity into my tone of voice. "Just meet me at the Tower of David, NOT David's Citadel Hotel, at nine AM sharp tomorrow. Will everything be okay by then?"

"Yes, yes, I certainly hope so," she said in a distracted tone. Suddenly, there was an upsurge in the babble in the background. "I have to go, Mr. Whitlock, someone seems to have lost their luggage--"

"See you tomorrow, Angela," I said lightly. "Take it easy. Until I see you – welcome to Israel!"

I snapped my phone closed and grumbled, brushing sesame seeds and za'atar off my lap as I stood and turned towards the bus stop adjacent to the Jaffa Gate.

_Might as well go pay Tali a visit.

* * *

_

**III**

**EPOV**

Out of all the places in Israel that I wanted to visit – or rather, scout out for my suicide mission – a smoky pub in the center of Jerusalem was not high on the list.

Even though such a site had suicide-bombing potential written all over it.

I stared at my vodka martini, calculating the chances that the olive had a pit that could choke me, while Maria was at the bar. After the talk that we had on the bus, and then on the walk to the center of town, I didn't search for suicide. However, since I had been searching for suicide over the past five years or so, those thoughts were reflexive, an instantaneous reaction.

"Snap out of it, Masen," Maria chided, sliding into the seat across from me and plunking her Guinness down, the froth jumping and sending little clouds of suds into the air. "Remember what I asked you to do?"

"How could I forget?" I asked sardonically. Maria ignored me and took a long pull of her beer; the woman either had thick skin, or just plain hated me and therefore didn't really listen when I was talking.

My vote was for thick skin, since no one would just cancel the rest of their lessons for the day and spend their time trying to talk a suicidal maniac out of their goal. No one in Chicago, at least. Not that I knew of, anyways.

Maria put her mug down with a sigh and wiped her upper lip. "So," she said, leaning forwards and staring at me with an intensity that I was marginally used to by now, "I have another favor to ask of you."

"What?" I asked, internally flinching. She smiled, enjoying my acquiescence; I couldn't remember a time in the past five years, in which I agreed with someone so much in such a short span of time. Until we reached the bar, I had promised Maria that I wouldn't try to commit suicide; I wouldn't plan to commit suicide while I was with her, and I would listen to her. For some unexplained reason, I didn't ignore her. Something about her was compelling, scarily so, and I didn't know if it was dangerous or not. Instead of analyzing it, I decided to roll with it. If it turned out to be dangerous – it's what I've been looking for, right?

"I am going to ask you a question now, and you have to answer me honestly. Then, you have to carry out your answer." Her gaze was penetrating, disconcertingly so. I found myself leaning towards her as well; if someone were to observe us from afar, they'd think we were about to have a romantic moment.

"Alright."

"What makes you happy?" she asked, her voice low. "Not just happy, satisfied. What makes you peaceful, even if it's just for a short while?"

I didn't even have to think about that.

"My art."

And with that, I pulled up the sleeve of my shirt.

Maria gasped. Around my right shoulder, there was a tattoo, which appeared to be stitches barely holding my arm to the rest of my body. The artist had done it exquisitely, filling in the gaps between the stitches with red and black ink, detailing the imaginary ragged flesh.

Before she could comment on the shoulder tattoo, I turned my head to the left and folded the top of my ear down. Behind it, there was a simple X, in black. "This was my first," I said, my head still turned, and let go of my ear. I turned back to Maria and added, "I'm deaf in that ear."

"Wow," she breathed, and I had to laugh at that, albeit mirthlessly. Every boy that I had fucked after I got them done had said the same; I never blamed them. It was a purely human reaction.

The last one was on my back, and instead of stripping in the pub, I told Maria its story.

"After the accident, I spun out of control. The only way I could get the images out of my head was sending me into a frenzy, and the only way that I knew how to do so was with sex." I was speaking into my glass, acutely aware of Maria's gaze on me.

"I went out only in order to renew my condom supply, and find fucks. When I exhausted the local street girls, I perused the yellow pages. When those ran out, I hit the clubs. I ate burgers occasionally, and I drank coffee. I showered, only when the girl wouldn't touch me.

"After a while, the effect started to wear off. Flashbacks would pop into my head during the act, and I'd freeze. I resolved to find another way to shut that day away... and that's when I ran across another type of sex."

"So..." Maria narrowed her eyes. "You're telling me that you're gay because you fucked all the females in Chicago?"

I shook my head. "No. I'm gay because of my parents. I know what you're thinking," I added hurriedly, seeing her face darken, "but it's not like that.

"Sex, for me, was more of an instrument and less of an enjoyment. I was rough, and every time I bruised a girl, a little of me died inside. Part of me – the same part that was trying to destroy itself – was glad, but my base instincts, instilled by my parents, would get louder and louder, every time a girl would cry out in pain. The first time I fucked a boy, the voices were quiet. I got the same rush of exhilaration, no voices, and suddenly, girls didn't interest me at all anymore.

"So I restarted the cycle, and soon enough, it began to wear and tear, as well. In order to get rid of those voices again, I started on my back tattoo. Ink seems to calm me, I have no idea why."

"What does it look like?" Maria asked.

"What, my tattoo?" A bubble rose inside of me, something golden and foreign. I felt the need to tantalize; since Maria had made her orientation clear, this urge was strange. I grinned crookedly and leaned closer and to the side, so I could whisper in her ear. "I'd have to show you, but not here."

I leant back, and watched her face flit between curiosity, anger, and self-satisfaction. I had no idea what prompted the latter, but before I could ask her, she flipped her phone open and dialed. While she waited, I took a sip of the martini and grimaced.

"Jazz?" Her face suddenly lit up. "It's me. I have someone you might want to meet."

* * *

**JPOV**

"Tali?" I called out into the smoky interior of the tattoo parlor. A shape emerged from the back room, revealing himself to be Vitaly, my tattoo artist. He grinned and I grinned back.

"Welcome back, Jasper," he said, his heavy Russian accent buffeting the words.

"Is Maria here?" I asked, craning my neck to check over his shoulder. The parlor seemed to be empty, but there was a back room that Vitaly slept in. He nodded and pointed me to the back of the store.

I approached the back, and moved aside the curtain. Suddenly, I couldn't breathe.

Maria was sitting on a large, ratty chair, her feet curled up under her, with a book in her lap. She greeted me absently, her attention caught by the book, but all I could hear were echoes; the angel on the fold-up cot was the only thing I saw.

His hands were behind his head, and his eyes were closed. He was wearing a black t-shirt that rode up slightly, showing a strip of pale, pale skin; his navel was visible, surrounded by a light dusting of bronze hair that trailed down, down,—under a pair of black jeans that I momentarily cursed.

My eyes traveled back up to his face, as if by some magnetic force. His features were sculpted, his nose straight, his eyelashes dark against his pale skin. His eyebrows, dark and arched, were drawn down, as if he were concerned about something. His hair, naturally disheveled, seemed to absorb the little light in the room and let it out in a muted smolder of bronze. The creases on his forehead were calling out to my hand to smooth them away. His lips were slightly turned down, and his jaw was square and covered by a day's worth of stubble.

Suddenly, my jaw started to itch. I blinked, wondering what provoked that reaction, and cleared my throat, rubbing my chin. His eyes flew open, and I gasped and took a step back.

They were bright green, like a Granny Smith apple. His eyes widened and he sat up, lowering his Converse All-Stars-clad feet to the floor. He smoothed his hair back with one hand, and then shoved it into his pockets along with the other one.

"I-I'm sorry," he stuttered, and my heart stuttered along with him. "Is this your bed?"

"It's not his bed, Edward," Maria said from beside me. "The man who showed us in owns the place and sleeps here." She looked up from her book and smiled at me. "Recuperated from last night yet, Jazz?"

"What? Oh, yeah." My eyes were still trained on the angel's face; his name – Edward – chimed in my ears. "Maria, what's going on?"

"This is Edward," Maria motioned her hand towards the angel, who extracted his hand from his pocket to raise it; he let it hang there for a few moments, and then lowered it to his knee. "He's from Chicago," Maria continued, "and he has something to show us."

Edward raised a single eyebrow at her and I chuckled. "Don't worry, Edward," I reassured him, "Maria's all bark and no bite. She thinks she has everything coming to her."

Maria said nothing; she just stared at her book with a disconcerting grin decorating her features.

I sat on the floor, cross-legged, facing Edward; he made as if he were making room for me on the cot, but I waved him away. "You don't have to show us anything if you don't want to, Edward," I said gently, taming my voice and my feelings. If this angel was like the rest of Maria's wards, I had to be careful. Any sudden movements might scare him away, and there was nothing that I wanted more than to keep this angel within my reach.

He turned around and faced the wall, the smooth sweep of his back smacking me in the face. Before I could mourn his refusal, his hands went to the edges of his t-shirt, and he pulled it off in one fluid motion.

My hands fisted in my lap, brushing against the painful evidence of my obsession with this angel – fallen angel, I corrected myself. Only fallen angels could elicit this sort of unbridled longing. There was nothing holy, nothing pure, and certainly nothing saintly, about the things I wanted to do with Edward, to Edward. For Edward.

His back was decorated with one of the most elaborate tattoos I had ever seen, apart from my own. Etched onto the ridges of his spine was the bony image of Jack Skellington, the Pumpkin King from Tim Burton's _The Nightmare Before Christmas_. Jack's pose was the one from the beginning of the movie, where he laments his position as King of Halloween. The curled-up mountain that he stood on was inked onto Edward's back as well, the edges hidden under his jeans. It was a near replica of the movie poster, in black and white; things like the mountain were inked in, but the curled portion was not.

I wasn't aware of changing positions until Edward shuddered; I realized that I was on my knees, leaning in so close that he could feel my breath on his back. I jerked my head back a few inches but didn't change my position, wanting to study every inch of his back.

"Jasper?" Maria touched my shoulder hesitantly. I made no move to acknowledge that she spoke. A few moments passed, and then she sighed behind me. "I have to go, Jasper. Promise me one thing."

No response from me; I had just caught sight of the horrific stitched tattoo ringing his right shoulder.

"He's fragile, Jazz. Don't break him."

And with that, she exited, leaving us alone in the back of Tali's tattoo parlor.

* * *

**IV**

**EPOV**

The wall was painted white, just like the hospital. Little flakes of the paint had come off the wall and drifted down to the black metal frame of the cot. I stared at them, counting them. Doing anything to distract myself from Jasper.

The moment we entered the shop, Maria had plopped down on the chair in the corner and ordered me, kindly but firmly, to wait on the cot. Emotionally drained from the 180-degree turn that my life had taken, and physically wiped from the flight and the jet lag, I fell into the cot and laid my head on my arms, staring at the ceiling.

Soon enough, my old self came back to haunt me, spouting its usual poison in my ear. The whispers of self-loathing, the growls of depravity, the finger pointing at me, blaming. Before I could counteract, my five-year old honed instincts had taken over yet again, and started rebuilding the wall that had crumbled to pieces when Maria had first called my name on the bus.

By the time the bell above the door at the front of the shop rang softly, a semblance of my former self was starting to emerge. I didn't talk, even though I was still sorely tempted to lay my soul bare in front of Maria. I kept my eyes closed, blocking out unnecessary sights. My ears heard, but did not listen.

The first crack in my wall came in the form of scent.

It was freshly-baked bread, hot sand, the heady smell of coffee in the cold morning breeze. A faint hint of musk, and the sharply clean scent of soap.

Someone cleared their throat, and my eyes opened. Before me stood a man, rubbing his jaw and looking shell-shocked. My old self evaluated him coldly, listed his pluses – at least 6'3; muscled; deeply tanned; hair the color of aged whisky; eyes that matched the sky outside...

My new self, the person who suddenly gained the upper hand and scrambled out his glass-walled prison, marveled at the long-lost emotions that started coiling inside my belly, just waiting to spark alive.

I could barely move; his beauty, his quiet confidence, captivated me. The unspoken bond that sprung into existence between us the moment I opened my eyes was there, building itself, biding its time like a newly planted sapling, adding rings to its delicate trunk.

"You don't have to show us anything if you don't want to, Edward."

Those words snapped me out of my trance; Jasper sat before me, his eyes earnestly searching mine for something, I did not know what. I broke away from his gaze, turned around, and pulled off my shirt, leaning forwards slightly so he could get a better look.

I waited, with baited breath, for Jasper's response, with equal parts anticipation and dread. Many people who got to know my old self (I was already calling that part of my past 'my old self', even though I had only shed it scarcely four hours ago) expected something wildly exotic or horrific; instead, they saw good ol' Jack. Those who never saw the movie though it was a cartoon character and dismissed him. Those who saw the movie, didn't dig deep enough into the words to understand.

I got the tattoo about three years after the accident. After trying everything, from turning myself into a man-whore to drinking myself into oblivion, I decided to tattoo Jack behind me, in order to enunciate what I could never say aloud—despite all the girls, the boys, the alcohol, that day would forever leave me hollow and dry.

A breath of cool air ghosted across my back, and I shivered. I heard Maria speak to Jasper quietly, and then she left the room. I felt as if a spell had just lifted.

I concentrated on the white specks of paint again, trying to distract myself. Instead, my mind wandered back to the man staring at my back, trying to read into the tattoo.

Then a fingertip touched me, and I shattered. I started trembling uncontrollably, hugging my knees with my arms, trying to understand the feelings welling up inside me with an alarming force. Instead of detaching from my back, the fingertip started tracing the lines of Jack's lament, joining the slivers of my broken soul.

It was as if a glass puzzle had been put together, each piece next to its proper mate, and a blindingly hot flame was gliding over the cracks, melting them, and welding them tight, repairing any damages. As Jasper traced the curlicue of the mountain, I could feel my heart tightening up like a coil, readying itself for a feeling so wholly unfamiliar, utterly foreign, and completely terrifying, that I wanted to cry.

His fingertip came to a rest at the center of my back, at the end of the spiral, and then it disconnected from my back. I let out a shaky breath, and the fingertip, along with four of its mates and their home base, rested lightly on my bare shoulder.

"Edward," I heard Jasper say gently, almost in a whisper. "There's no need to hide."

It's not that I didn't want to move—I wanted to spin around and hold this flame of salvation in my arms, burn the ugly off my flesh, savor him and his pure heat. I didn't move fast, because my repaired self was still cooling down, still healing from the ordeal I had just gone through.

Then I heard him start humming an all-too-familiar tune.

_Oh, somewhere deep inside of these bones_

_An emptiness begins to grow_

_There's something out there, far from my home—_

He sang softly, under his breath, and I joined in on the final line, my heart beating wildly, wondering if I was ready for this.

_A longing that I've never known..._

The last notes of our voices echoed in the room, even though one wall was a curtain. We were encased in an impenetrable wall of self-awareness.

"Edward. Turn around."

This time, it was all I could do, not to spin around so fast I would harm the both of us, seeing as his hand had slid down from my shoulder to my waist. I shifted on the cot until I was facing Jasper.

He was on his knees, his eyes level with mine. His eyes were bright and calm; tears were running down his face, but he was smiling. He looked ecstatic, as if he had just found something that he had been missing for a long, long time.

One of the feelings coiled in my heart, sleeping warmly, sprung up and drew itself tight around my chest. I couldn't see Jasper cry, not after he had put me back together again, so I shushed him, reaching out a hand to wipe away his tears.

"Shh, Jasper..." I crooned, aware of every millimeter of skin that touched, creating an undeniable electric current. He closed his eyes and turned his head to the left, catching my hand by surprise. He kissed the palm, a flutter of lips there—then gone.

I gasped, and his eyes turned wary. He opened his mouth, to apologize, but I wouldn't let him be sorry for giving me that last bonus, the flourish on top of the put-back-together-again glass puzzle, my solid soul.

I leaned forward swiftly and caught his top lip in between my own. His bottom lip automatically closed on my bottom lip, sealing the kiss.

My hand, previously on his cheek, dove into his hair, fisting amongst the locks, drawing him closer to me. His hand slid to hold my neck, his other finding purchase on my waist.

I tugged his head back a bit, using his hair for leverage, and opened my mouth gradually, only to find his open as well. Our tongues danced lazily against each other, and just when I thought it couldn't get any better, black spots began bursting in front of my eyes. I pulled away reluctantly, breathing heavily, leaning my forehead against Jasper's as he panted.

I moved my lips across his cheeks, kissing away the tears, licking where the salt had left trails. Vowing to never let him cry because of me; if anything, I should be crying.

Jasper half-groaned, half-laughed, as he dragged his mouth back to mine, to reclaim it. This kiss was furious, filled with passion and desperate need. Both my hands went into his hair, nearly pulling on it now; his hands clamped onto my shoulders, holding me tight, the fingers digging into my bare flesh.

We broke away at the same time; Jasper leant his forehead against mine again. I couldn't help but to laugh. Jasper asked, "What?"

"Oh, nothing," I replied, grinning crookedly at the man who had saved my life with a simple touch.

"Come on, Edward," he said in a growl. I sucked in my breath, aware of the evidence of my attraction to Jasper.

"I was just thinking how unfair it was..." I trailed off suggestively, marveling at how fast I could kickback from life changing to horndog.

"That what?" His hands were running up and down my arms.

"That I'm shirtless, and you aren't," I gasped, then quickly caught his lips in mine, slaking my thirst.

As our tongues battled, he tugged his shirt up. Waiting until I relinquished control, he popped his head through and returned to my lips greedily, moving his mouth against mine. As much as I liked the way things were going, a flash of ink had caught my attention, so I pulled away and looked down at Jasper's arms.

One bicep was branded with a bulldog wearing a spiked collar, holding a machine gun and smoking a big-ass cigar, with USMC tattooed right above it. The other one was a four-digit number and a checkerboard pattern, banding his muscle with blue and skin.

"Marines, huh?" I smiled, unable to control myself. He simply nodded, then twisted his shoulder a moment. I caught another glimpse of ink—this time, there was a lot of it—but he turned back to face me too quick for me to comprehend anything.

Seeing the question in my eyes, he placed a soft kiss on my lips and whispered, "I promise you, Edward, later. Now, I just--" He exhaled a shaky breath. "I just need you, now. Will you have me?"

"Yes. Yes." I kissed him, nibbling on his bottom lip, eliciting a growl from him. He bit down gently on my bottom lip in return, and then started moving lower.

Jasper kissed a trail from my jaw line to my neck; as he was laving attention on my pulse point, I looked to the ceiling and offered thanks to whatever deity responsible for sending me my own personal Messiah.

I did not know what I did to deserve him. If I knew, I'd never stop doing it.

* * *

**JPOV**

Someone once said that man plans and G-d laughs. As I twisted my shoulder to show Edward my tattoo, that proverb slithered into my mind, waving a rather large red flag.

Who would have thought, that from a lonely man in a lonely city, I would turn into someone... needed?

A pleasant tingling in my bottom lip pulled me out of my musings and into the present heaven. Instead of expending my energy on analyzing this blessedly strange turn of events, I moved my mouth lower, wanting to see how fallen my angel really was.

Licking across his jaw, I reached his pulse point and pressed an open-mouth kiss to the warm stretch of skin. The area heated up as I continued to lick and nibble it.

As I moved down to his collarbone, the state of my knees came into focus - they were pulsating with a dull pain. Cursing the moment, I drew away from Edward and stood up.

He was staring at the ceiling with hooded eyes. Before he could react to the loss of contact, I leaned down and captured his mouth in my own. Supporting the back of his head with my right hand, my left was free to explore his upper torso.

Tracing his lips, I let my left hand wander... and come across his nipple, studded by something cold and metallic. My tongue stopped moving, my hand stilled, and my breathing hitched; my heart, however, overcompensated and started racing.

"Edward..." I groaned. I could feel his lips curve into a smile under mine. Instead of responding, I pushed him back into the mattress; he laid down and I stretched out above him, supporting my weight on my elbows at first.

"Now, where were we?"

I could feel Edward chuckle as I kissed his chin, rumbling in his chest as I kissed and licked my way down, down, down to the nipple ring. Feeling wicked, I flicked the delicate silver hoop with my tongue, letting the tip taste him for a short moment.

Judging by his growl, he had no problem with that.

Fixating my mouth onto his nipple, I swirled my tongue around it, the ring creating a delicious contrast between rough and smooth. My hand crept up Edward's chest from his hip to the other nipple, keeping it company. I kissed across his chest, pausing for a few moments to lay an open-mouthed kiss right over his heart; from there, I continued to his other nipple, lavishing it with attention as well.

By now, my cock was creating a tent in my pants, the zipper pressing against it painfully. Edward's desire was obvious as well; his erection was pressing into my lower stomach, twitching every now and then. Anxious to relieve myself, and him, I slipped back up his body quickly, pecking his lips and lowering my body onto his.

He inhaled sharply and let out a staggered breath; our cocks had brushed against one another, through the fabric. I looked into his eyes, searching for assent; he nodded his head minutely. That was the sign I was looking for: consent.

I reached down between us and undid the button of his jeans; he did the same for me. Both of us groaned at each other's hand brushing against the other's erection. Suddenly, I understood the tingling I experienced earlier, when I had caught sight of Edward's jaw. My jaw had wanted to feel the rough stubble against it, and it had gotten its wish - my jawline was chafed a delicate red from the rasping.

My hand was humming now, the same as my jaw-line but more intense. I pulled the zipper to Edward's jeans down, pushed the denim down over his hips, and swallowed, my throat clogged and my vision clouded.

"C-c-c-"

"Commando," he interceded, his sexy-as-hell crooked smirk sparking at my very short fuse. He unzipped my pants and pushed them down my waist, along with my white boxer briefs.

I was opening and closing my mouth like a fish, nothing but incoherent noises leaving my mouth, when he shrugged and grinned wider.

"Saves on laund--"

The rest of his witticism was swallowed by my mouth devouring his. My hand found its way to his cock, grasping the base. He moaned into my mouth as he did the same for me.

I pulled away from his lips and panted, tightening my grip ever-so-gently on him, as he started sliding his hand up and down my cock. My hand imitated his – they were moving in perfect tandem, as if they were magnetized.

The small space was filled with the sound of our panting and moaning; the hands were moving faster, the tension was building. Right before I exploded, I bit down on Edward's shoulder, marking the marked skin.

And then I came, with white lights pinging behind my eyelids. I could feel Edward do the same right after me. He grunted out my name, spasmed, and lay still.

Slowly, my senses came back to me—yet my sense did not. I didn't give a flying fuck that I had just jerked off a man that I met scarcely 5 minutes before I did that. I didn't care that Tali had probably been privy to the sounds we were making. I didn't even care that we messed up his bed.

G-d had sent me an angel, in the form of Edward Masen. And the last thing I was going to do was let him slip through my fingers.

FIN.

* * *

***NIS=New Israeli Shekels. 1 USD = 3.9 NIS, approximately. So the pretzel would have cost around a dollar or so.**

****Za'atar: A spice blend, used on Middle Eastern food, hummus in particular. Look it up on Wikipedia. It's quite tasty, actually. If you can find it in your local supermarket, try mixing it in with sour cream, cottage cheese or cream cheese. Or brush oil onto a piece of bread, sprinkle za'atar and crushed garlic, and stick it into a toaster oven.**

**A/N: This is it, guys. My entry, finally done. Jasper's POV in the last part - the smut - is unBETAed, so forgive any mistakes. Also, this is my first attempt at boysex. Keep that in mind.  
**

**I have an entire plot line and cast of characters, just waiting to burst out of their boxes and scatter foam peanuts. If this story gets a favorable response, I'll continue it into a multi-chaptered fic.**

**I'd like to thank a few people, whom without I would have never gotten here:**

**-My Claires. DQRC and darklyromantic, two fantastic BETAs who have extraordinary skillz themselves and rock my socks to no end.**

**-Jules, AKA Julia, AKA rainypromise, the author of The Passing Years. Chatting with her during work hours inspired me to write, since she writes so much fuckawesome stuff that I'd be ashamed not to write as well.**

**-Last, but certainly not least: stolenxsanity, my in-a-pinch BETA who did a amazingly meticulous job and saved all your eyes from burnout. I was really lucky to have her help on this mother.  
**

**Playlist can be found on my profile, but there are three songs that aren't on it, and they are: Amazing Grace (the a capella version by LeAnn Rimes); Jack's Lament, written and sung by Danny Elfman, from the movie 'The Nightmare Before Christmas'; and 'Come Home', by OneRepublic.**

**A song that I have to mention, even though it may be on the playlist, is 'Strawberry Swing', by Coldplay. The music video came out while I was writing this, and it helped me tons, boosting my spirits and making me giggle at Chris Martin in a cape and large underpants. Chris, if you're reading this, *snortsnort*, thanks so much. The lyrics to the song don't apply to ExJ, yet, but I simply love that song. I WANT SOMEONE TO DEDICATE IT TO MEEEEEE.**

**Ahem. Enough with the monster-sized author's note.**

**Thanks so much, ahead of time, to whoever reviews. I know, more than most, how annoying it is to have to click the link, then think of something witty to say... so even though it's irritating, I'm allowing anonymous reviews, and even a word or two of recognition and/or concrit will make me really-really happy.**

**Reviewers get a tattoo of Jack's head, on the body part of their choosing.**

**-M.**


	2. I'm in the finals! OMFG!

**DO NOT REVIEW THIS AUTHOR'S NOTE, IF YOU DO – YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO REVIEW THE SECOND CHAPTER WHEN I REPOST.**

*******

_Difficulties mastered are opportunities won. –Winston Churchill_

***

As you will all see by tomorrow, this very humble one shot has reached the finals in the Tattward and Inkella contest, held by antiaol and Tallulah Remiter.

You have no idea how shocked I was. Seriously.

Great authors entered this contest, and to list them all here would be slightly redundant since you can all check them out on the C2. What I mean to say by that is – this is one of my first endeavors into fandom, and certainly my first ever slash fic. I never dreamt that I would reach the finals. I can rest on my nonexistent laurels now, I'm so happy.

I know this statement seems slightly subdued, but meh. After all, this is fanfiction dot net, not the gazebo on LJ. =]

I am over the moon in so many ways. I am so glad that you liked this story enough to review, and I thank antiaol and Tallulah for choosing this. You made me so much more inspired to write. Thank you.

Big thanks go to rainypromise and stolenxsanity, my sisters from varied misters, who chatted me up and helped me in ways they can't begin to imagine.

The greatest show of love goes to my BETA Claire, because she rocks. Even when I act like a total spaz over the smallest detail (should Jasper have an iPhone or Backberry? I still haven't decided), she takes me seriously and puts me on the right path.

Last, but CERTAINLY not least, are all my reviewers, and all the wonderful people who put me on their author alert and favorites. Srsly, you people rock.

Those of you who want a teaser from the next chapter (slightly lemony, haha), send me a PM. Until then – vote for me! Because I'm self-pimpin' like that. =]

-M.


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